


He's Picture Perfect

by plasticdaisy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Humanstuck, M/M, Meet-Cute, Modeling, Photography, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 12:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20291470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plasticdaisy/pseuds/plasticdaisy
Summary: Despite being one of the world's leading contract fashion photographers, Dave yearns for a quieter career where he can express his own unique vision.After a two year hiatus in which his attempts to be an artistic photographer fail, he returns at his sister's request to do a shoot for Vogue - and meets someone who could be the key to the life he desires.





	He's Picture Perfect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KittyMotor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyMotor/gifts).

“Cool, thanks.”

I lower my camera, running a hand through my hair and pushing down my shades. I have a blaring headache; I’m so glad this shoot is over. One of the seemingly thousands of nondescript assistants rushes over, taking my camera and handing me a glass of water. I rub my temples.

“Mr. Strider?” the assistant’s voice is timid and his eyes wide with nerves, “is there anything else you need?”

It takes me a moment from process his words.

“Uh … no,” I mutter, “just throw that with my shit and I’ll go get in a second.”

“You aren’t staying?” one of the editors waltzes over, a hand on her hip. The assistant scurries from the scene like a frightened animal with a death-grip on my camera.

I take a sip of my water. I feel vaguely disturbed around editors, but not uncomfortable from fear, per se – more so from the nauseating thought of their ruthlessness. Though I’m sure it has its good sides, I’ve always seen the fashion industry as a constrictor who feeds on money. It coils around people, suffocating them with silk and foundation. Everyone wants in: models, photographers, writers, makeup artists, lighting technicians, graphic designers.

The editors of the magazines are the facilitators of this hellish landscape, their artistic directors at their sides like a royal advisor kneeling beside a throne. With the exception of my sister, Rose, who knows how to play editors like she plays the violin – incredibly. However, I know this time around it was a little more difficult than usual. This issue of _Vogue_ is being spear-headed by one of the harshest of the current reigning editors – Vriska Serket.

Not that her standing as the company’s Miranda Priestly matters to me, a photographer; in the end, she’s writing my paycheck. Well, probably not personally. I doubt she can actually hold a pen with the length of her sharpened acrylic nails.

I shrug.

“I don’t feel that great,” I mutter.

“It was a decent shoot,” Vriska comments offhandedly, not looking up from her phone, “though I’ve seen you do better for us.”

“… Thanks,” my reply is somewhat muffled by the hand I’m instinctively running across my lips, but sufficiently deadpan.

To my luck, she’s a little too busy to chew me out over the shoot. She hums dismissively and walks away. My eyes wander across the room, eventually landing on my sister. Thank god.

Shoving my hands into my pockets, I saunter over to her. She turns to me, raising an eyebrow.

“Ah,” her lips twitch upward, “need an aspirin?”

“God, please.”

Shaking her head with vague disappointment, Rose reaches into her purse, locating the bottle of painkillers and handing them to me.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

“Did you not enjoy this shoot?” she raises an eyebrow, “I thought you’d be rather fond of the theme. It’s melancholy enough for your taste; that’s why I asked for you to be brought in.”

I scoff.

“You asked for me to come in because I told you I needed money after blowing it all on bullshit and not taking jobs for like … two years.”

“You sell yourself short, Dave. You are what one would consider a world-renowned photographer for this industry. You should have heard the models _raving_ about you leaving your hiatus.”

“Oh, great. I get to buff out some portfolios.”

Rose rolls her eyes, “whatever pessimistic outlook makes you feel more critical of an industry in which you currently play a crucial role.”

I glare at her, though I doubt she can tell from behind my shades.

“Don’t glare,” she scolds, organizing a stack of forms and shoving them into a file folder.

I stand corrected.

“… I tried to do other shit,” I mutter under my breath, looking down at my feet. The floor is an ugly tile – I hadn’t noticed before, “no galleries would take me. Artistic photography is like a whole new monster. I don’t know how I did this the first time – like, fuck, was it all just luck? My professors used to say I was so good at having my own vision, but now I’m stuck fulfilling other people’s damn ideas – no offense.”

“None taken,” she replies, her eyes darting over to me, “but I think sulking about it won’t do you anything. Perhaps you’ve just been looking in the wrong places. Have you considering hiring your own models?”

I shrug, “… I’ll think about it.”

After she slides the folder into one of her bags, Rose turns to me.

“I’m going back to the apartment, are you coming?”

“I think I’ll walk.”

“I’ll be ready with dinner. Don’t make any unnecessarily long stops.”

“Will do.”

As I watch Rose leave, I realize the room is emptying out – the equipment is already put away, and those who linger are models removing their makeup and trying to get a moment with Vriska, who seems to be on three simultaneous phone-calls, instructing two assistants. Three models hover over her like vultures, though I doubt she’ll give them to the time of day.

I make my way to the back wall of the room, where my camera sits perched on top of my backpack. My skateboard is propped up on the wall just beside it. After throwing my camera inside, I sling my bag over my shoulder and make a beeline for the door. I think it’s obvious I don’t want conversation, because the models who had been eyeing me don’t approach me as I slip out of the room and into the hallway.

I take a deep breath, thanking god that there’s a vending machine between me and the door – I can get a bottle of soda to try and calm my stirring stomach.

“Fucking damn it!”

Oh. There’s someone there. I didn’t notice. My eyes fall on a man standing in front of one of the vending machines, his arms crossed over his chest and his expression twisted into a scowl.

I wander over, adjusting my board under my arm so I don’t drop it.

“That gets stuck sometimes,” I comment.

The man turns to face me. Despite his displeased expression, I can’t help but notice he’s attractive. His eyes are fiery, but they roar with a depth that you wouldn’t see in a candle or a match – no, he’s somewhere between the warmth of a woodstove and the penetrating light of a campfire. His hair is messy in a sort of deliberate way, and though I have more than a few inches on him, he has a more dominating presence than four of me would.

His lips twitch before he speaks, and I notice he has two lip piercings – snakebites, they’re called, I think.

“I noticed,” he hisses, “thanks for the _astounding_ observation, genius.”

Oh, his voice is _nice_. A choir of a song I’ve not heard but that feels to have existed in my history for thousands of years. I swallow the way my heart feels a little lighter; I’m not some crushing high-schooler.

“Here, I can get it,” I mutter, shooing him out of the way. He rolls his eyes.

Leaning down a little, I push a few of the buttons at once. The machine makes a slightly pained sound, before the sleeve of bottlecaps he’d bought come clattering out of the metal coil they were stuck in.

“…You actually got it?”

“Hell yeah,” I reach into the vending machine, grabbing the candy and handing it to the stranger, “someone told me that trick a while back. My sister works here, so I’m around a lot, I guess.”

“Who’s your sister?”

“Rose Lalonde,” I reply, rolling my shoulders, “art-director-extraordinaire. Do you work here?”

“At _Vogue_? Hell no,” he replies indignantly, “I write for the nature magazine upstairs. I have a friend who writes here and I’m her ride, so I come down here to get her so she doesn’t get distracted and stick around for thirty years.”

I nod.

“So do you, like, go wandering through the African wilderness and then write about lions mauling people?”

He raises his eyebrows at me.

“… No, I write about animal health. Biology, shit like that. Not … lion attacks.”

“I’m just pulling your leg, dude.”

“Do you work around here, too?” he asks, then, electing not to continue the somewhat idiotic leg I had sewn onto our conversation.

“Sorta,” I shrug, “I’m a photographer, but technically I work for an agency. Rose brought me in to do a shoot today, because she trust me with her ‘vision’ or whatever. Also, I need money.”

“Wait, you did the shoot in here today? You’re Dave Strider?” Karkat’s eyes widen a little.

“Yeah?”

“You’re a … famous photographer. Kanaya – my friend, she told me you were coming. I didn’t expect –”

“That I’d look like a tired deadbeat?”

“I wouldn’t’ve used those exact words, but sure.”

I laugh, wiggling my eyebrows at him a little.

“Feeling starstruck, then?”

“Oh, my respect for your work? It actually just left. That killed it. Who are you?”

His tone is somewhat critical, but he smiles, and I feel an immense sense of accomplishment at bringing the expression to his face – he really is incredibly handsome.

Then, it hits me. He’s making me feel something. Suddenly, there’s a rush in my chest; a rush I haven’t felt since I was coming off the subway six years ago with a disposable camera and saw a crow landing on top of a lamppost, framed by the setting sun.

He could be the key.

“… Hey, uh – fuck, I never asked your name.”

“Karkat,” he replies, and his smile sticks around as he raises an eyebrow at me.

“Would you want to … maybe, like, if you’d like it – want to pose for some photos for me?” I feel my nerves overtake me as I look at him hopefully. His expression goes blank for a moment – like he’s processing what I just asked him – before his brow furrows and he frowns critically.

“Are you fucking with me?”

“No, I – look, I know this is kind of nuts, but I have to be real with you – I hate this industry. I despite it. I hate working in studios, and I hate working for the snakes that edit for this place. I just want to … I want to do shit for myself, but I just can’t _think_ like that anymore. And, I don’t want to be creepy, but seeing you – I don’t know. I feel like I can start over, maybe. If you’d want to help me.

We wouldn’t shoot in a place like this – it’d be outside, with an older camera. It would be submitted to galleries and shit. But, like, I could do a series on you. About how you write, or, fuck – anything.”

“… I don’t know what to say,” he blinks at me, “this is … god, it’s a lot.”

“Here,” I shove my hand into my pocket, pulling out a folded business card, “here’s my info. If you decide you want to do it, just give me a call, okay?”

Karkat nods.

“Yeah, alright.”

We bid awkward goodbyes, my chest stinging at my horrible attempt to recruit him into my personal work. As he turns and starts down the hallway towards the writer’s offices, popping a bottlecap into his mouth, I clench my teeth and hope to god he’ll call.

♞

“Just do whatever you’d normally do,” I lower my camera just below my eye, offering Karkat an encouraging smile. Pulling off his scarf, he sets his pumpkin spice latte down onto the table in front of him.

I snap a photo as he speaks, which makes him roll his eyes.

He called two weeks after I’d asked him to work with me, telling me he would do one shoot with me and tell me how he feels. Of course, I agreed – which led us to this little café, me holding one of my more charming old cameras. It’s a two-lens Yashica that shoots square rolls of black and white film.

“…This feels really awkward,” he mutters, pulling out his chair and sitting down.

“Don’t worry,” I reassure him, “it never looks as awkward as it feels. I promise.”

“Alright,” he bites his lip, pulling out one of his notebooks. I crouch a little, taking another photo. He scrunches up his face at the sound.

After two more shots of him setting up, I slip into the chair across from him as he explains to me his writing process. It’s interesting, being as its comparable to my own artistic process. Besides, the more he speaks, the more I realize I could talk to him for hours. He taps his pen as he speaks, and once he starts writing, he bites his lip when he thinks. It’s odd, the little things you notice when you’re shooting someone like this – it’s like inspecting a piece of art. He’s certainly beautiful enough to be one.

The sun is starting to set, as autumn is bringing us the shorter days. The light filters through the window behind me, dancing through his hair. My breath catches.

“Wait – hold that,” I murmur, scrambling out of my chair.

“Wha … oh,” he freezes, gripping his pen a little tighter. I line up the lenses, taking a deep breath.

“Look at the camera – the lower lens. Just with your eyes. Don’t move your head.”

He looks into the lens. I pause before I snap the photo, holding my breath as I steady the camera. The light moves across his skin, like a filter of shimmering gold. He seems to shine like he’s the sun – like he’s shining onto me, as opposed to reflecting the sunset.

I wonder if I’m in love with him, but I force the feeling into rest; I need to get this shot, and it has to be perfect.

I take the photo, and I see him visibly relax.

“Sorry,” I move back into my seat.

“Did it look good?” he asks, lowering his pen.

“It looked fucking amazing – I can’t wait for you to see it.”

He smiles, and I swear again that I’m looking at the sun.

“I can’t wait, either.”

We sit there for another few hours, until I run out of film. The sun has already set, and he’s yawning while he works. I had brought my own notebook, a little pad to take down what he had said earlier. I scribble in it a little underneath my previous notes, doodling silly little birds and shit like that.

“… Alright, I’m done,” he says just after we hit the five-hour mark.

“You finished the article?” I ask, blinking the sleep from my eyes.

“Mhm,” he hums in reply, offering me a sleepy smile. It’s cute. He caps his pen, closing his notebook and laptop. He slips them into his messenger bag. “Did you get all the shots you wanted?”

“I did, yeah. I definitely did. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

He stands, and I follow, stretching my aching legs. After he tosses his cup and heads towards the door, I stop him briefly. He lets go of the handle, adjusting his scarf.

“Would you want to do this again?” I ask with bated breath. He pauses, taking a deep breath of the warm, coffeeshop air.

“… Yeah, I think I would.”

I can’t help the smile that splits across my face, toothy and stupid. He smiles back, and it’s comparable to the nature-shots in the magazine he writes for – it shines so brightly and so colorfully.

“Hey, Dave?” he asks, breaking the silence I somehow didn’t notice; despite my continual hatred for the quiet, I feel so comfortable around him.

“Yeah?”

“… Would you, uh. Maybe want our next meetup to be … a date?”

My breath leaves my chest.

“God – yeah. Yes. I’d love that. I’d like that a whole fucking lot, Karkat.”

“Good,” his smile widens into a grin. It’s beautiful.

We step outside into the autumn air. It smells like petrichor and the fallen leaves. He turns to me, framed by the indigo sky and surrounded by stars. They loom over his head like a crown. He seems to notice my wonder, because he bites his lip. He pauses for a moment, before leaning up and pecking me on the cheek. It feels like sparks jump across my skin.

“Later, Dave,” he says. He’s flushed, and even if I can’t tell if it’s from the change in temperature or because he feels the same way I do, but either way he’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

“Later,” I reply with the biggest smile I think I’ve ever had.

As he disappears into the quiet street, visible only by the faint remnants of the shine from the streetlights on the other side of the road, I pull a little disposable camera from my sweatshirt’s front pocket, snapping a photo of him walking away.

When I develop it a week later, it turns out a little underexposed and grainy, but it’s my favorite picture for a long, long time – the night we fell in love, painted in my heart and through every spot of ink showing me his back and the night sky.


End file.
